









THE BOUQUET. 

MISSLETOE, 
VISCUM VERTICILLATUM. 
I surmount all difficulties. 
Sux loves, but ’tis not me she loves ; 
Not me on. whom she ponders, 
When, in some dream of tenderness, 
Her truant fancy wanders. 
The forms that flit-her visions through, 
Are like the shapes of old, 
Where tales of prince and paladin 
On tapestry are told. 
Man may not hope her heart to win, 
Be his of common mould. 
But I— though spurs are won no more, 
Where herald’s trump is pealing, 
Nor thrones carved out for lady fair, 
Where steel-clad ranks are wheeling — 
I loose the falcon of my hopes 
Upon as proud a flight 
As those who hawked at high renown, 
In song-ennobled fight. 
If daring, then, true love may crown, 
My love she must requite. 
C. F. HorrMan. 

